


the age of no regret

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Insomnia, M/M, Prompt Fill, Romantic Friendship, Suicidal Thoughts, dumb boys being dumb and doing risky things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:25:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excess was Grantaire’s most definable trait. Too much of everything. Too much alcohol. Too much drugs. Too much emotions. Too much love. Too much hate. Too much words. Too much cynicism. Just too much. Jehan was just like that. He did everything too much, he felt everything too much. They both breathed excess and they were fine with it. What was the point of feeling anything if you couldn't feel everything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	the age of no regret

**Author's Note:**

> kink meme fill: grantaire and jehan talk in the middle of the night about everything. from their combined mental health issues, to the people they care about, to the person they're in love with (which is where the e/R comes in). there's not enough of these two being really good mates. i prefer a romantic friendship between them if you can. dnw mental illness to be used angst fodder. it's an important issue and i'd prefer it if you didn't use it as just an emphasis for manpain.

“I think I could have loved you.” Jehan said as they walked on the wall separating them from the water, with their arms outstretched for balance. It was late. The midnight sky was extraordinarily dark which made the water below them look black and even more daunting. Neither he nor Jehan were on the heavyset side and the wind was heavy tonight so they walked as carefully as they could. Of course logically the wind wasn’t strong enough to actually blow them into the Seine, but it _felt_ like it could which made all the difference.  

 

It was late and neither of them were tired. Generally when neither of them could sleep it typically involved one of their usual bouts of melancholy. It's not as if they were so in sync that their emotions, their highs and lows, usually happened simultaneously, but when it did and neither of the other was mentally available to calm the other down, they couldn’t stay in one spot for too long. They needed to move. So obviously two rational thinking fellows such as themselves would choose to roam the city at night where they could be mugged or killed or worse. Grantaire thought he was very fortunate to have a roommate that he shared so much of his tendencies with; from his depression, to his insomnia, to his love for all things excess. Excess was Grantaire’s most definable trait. Too much of everything. Too much alcohol. Too much drugs. Too much emotions. Too much love. Too much hate.  Too much words. Too much cynicism. Just too much. Maybe that’s why Enjolras hated him so much. He was the human embodiment of waste. Jehan was just like that, but he was different. He handled it better than he did. He did everything too much, he felt everything too much. They both breathed excess and they were fine with it. What was the point of feeling anything if you couldn’t feel everything? That’s not to say they were similar in this way all the time. Whenever Jehan could find a moment of happiness he revelled in it, when Grantaire found a moment of happiness it made him wonder what hail of shit is going to rain down upon him now that he was permitted a few minutes of joy. That was their distinction. Grantaire took even his emotions with a grain of salt, whereas Jehan just took his emotions. 

 

“I think I could have loved you.” Jehan repeated, his breath heavy from either nerves or exhaustion or both. “I could have been in love with you if I could love people properly. If I was capable of it.”

 

 

‘I could love you’ was one of Jehan’s favourite mantras when it came to him. When they were lazing together and Jehan had his arm wrapped around Grantaire’s waist and they just lay there breathing. When they were both in the kitchen making dinner and Grantaire spontaneously kissed him on the cheek. When they shared a joint in their living room and Jehan rested his head on Grantaire’s lap as Grantaire stroked his hair. When they shared kisses on their couch and Grantaire cupped his hand behind Jehan’s head to pull him closer. Even when he was writhing below him, his cock in Jehan’s firm grip as he brings him over the edge, there were those words. ‘I could love you.’ And Grantaire was sure that he could, if he didn’t doubt himself so much and come on too strong then get terrified and shy away when it came to relationships and more importantly if Grantaire would let him. 

 

“Who says you’re not capable?” Grantaire asked; his breath just as heavy, except it was from exhilaration rather than from nerves. “I think you capable of anything.”

 

Jehan laughed and asked, “What do you think would happen if we fall.” changing the subject so quickly that Grantaire almost didn’t even notice.

 

“We’d die.” Grantaire replied simply. The thought had occurred to him the minute they climbed up the wall. Life was so fleeting, and the thought of moments where he could end it always weighed so heavy in his mind.

 

“And that doesn’t scare you?” Jehan asked. He didn’t sound frightened, nervous, disappointed or scornful when he asked the question like most people would, which is why Grantaire chose to reply honestly.

 

“Why should I fear death? I don’t believe in the afterlife like you do. I don’t think I’ll be judged for my many, many sins. To me death is simply something that’s inevitable. The only scary part about it is how final it is. You can’t make the choice to come back when you go because you won’t exist anymore. Your body will rot and disintegrate, your bones will turn to dust, your friends and family will grieve for somewhere around the obligated six months to a year and then they’ll move on because that’s what you do. Life goes on and you won’t, because you’ll be gone. That’s all there is too it.” He wondered who would mourn his death. Jehan would. Jehan loved him for some unexplainable reason. Most of his friends would, because they loved him too. They were silly like that. He wondered if Enjolras would grieve for him as he looked at the water below. If he would even care. Probably not. After a moment he huffed and said in a softer voice. “I think I’m much more afraid of life. With life I know what I’m getting, and what I’m getting is more terrifying than death could ever be.”

 

“That’s fair enough.” Jehan replied after a moment of brief consideration. “Do you want something to drink? I’m in the mood for a pint myself.”

 

* * *

 

 

There’s nowhere on earth that Grantaire loved more than Paris and he travelled for a bit. It was two in the morning and the streets were still busy. The bars were hectic, a few restaurants were either open or now closing, and the people looked as alert as they would during the day. The thing about Paris, is that most people who live in Paris aren’t actually from Paris. When you count out the tourists, very few people there could truthfully claim to be a born and bred Parisian. Grantaire himself was from Bordeaux. Jehan, who was looking thoughtfully at the wine that he opted for instead of the beer Grantaire was drinking, was from Toulouse. Most of his friends were from Toulouse actually, except for Bossuet and Feuilly who were genuine Parisians, not that you’d know it by talking to them. Just a week ago, he, Bossuet, Courfeyrac and Bahorel had been walking back from uni when Grantaire had taken them to a tiny little cafe that made the best and most delicate macarons, (It seriously melted in your mouth.) and a very soft but flaky tarte tatin. Grantaire was usually the person to find places like these for his friends because in that respect Bossuet was fucking useless. At least Feuilly, who had grown up poor and was tossed around from foster home to foster home, had a real reason as to why he couldn’t know out of the way little cafes. If he could even afford to waste money on flaky pastry and good wine, he didn’t have the time to find places like that. Bossuet had no such excuse. His excuse was laziness. Not that Grantaire couldn’t claim to that particular trait as well; but his laziness came in the form on procrastination and he still managed to know Paris like the back of his hand.

 

“How do you love someone without suffocating them?” Jehan asked from where he was sitting opposite him in their booth in another one of Grantaire’s finds. It was a dive. Everything about the place was shitty except the alcohol itself which was more quality than the best pub in Paris. They both acknowledged that it was shit of them to claim a booth in a busy bar when it was just the both of them, and they also acknowledged that they just didn’t give a shit. “Without giving them so much of you that you box them in and terrify them and you terrify yourself and send them running.”

 

If there was one thing Grantaire knew about Jehan it was that he loved love. He loved the idea of giving yourself to someone so completely that it could either build you or break you. Grantaire hated it. No one should have that much power over one person.

 

“I don’t think I’m the right person to ask this question.” Grantaire said. And he really wasn’t. What the hell did he know about healthy love and relationships that don’t hurt and he said as much before downing the rest of his beer.  When Jehan didn’t respond Grantaire continued. “If I ever loved anything that was good for me, I wouldn’t be where I am now. If I made any sense at all I’d be in love with you, but I’ve never been known to make sense have I?”

 

Jehan ran his fingers through what little hair he had and sighed as though he missed the loss. Two weeks ago, in a fit of rage, Jehan had cut off all of his pretty auburn locks and smashed a mirror in the bathroom. He told his friends that he was just in the mood for something different, but when he and Grantaire were cleaning up the glass, he told him what had happened. That his parents had called him and they were badgering him about why he hadn’t found a nice boy to settle down with. That by itself wouldn’t have been so bad if not for the colossally bad day he had had before that call. He failed his creative writing assignment because his professor had told him not to write anything too dark and he chose not to listen. He was late for his classics class for the fifth time that week and he got docked ten marks on the surprise quiz his professor has decided to give and he’d fallen into a puddle on his way home and ruined his copy of Sylvia Plath’s best works and he was just one month off his meds and he felt like shit.  All that, plus his parents, led to the demise of his characteristic ponytail. 

 

“What’s the point of making sense? I’ve never quite made sense either and I much prefer it that way. It’s not so easy to categorize and stereotype someone when they don’t make sense.” Jehan shrugged, still playing with the tufts of hair on his head. He never saw the point of going to the barber and fixing his hair, so it was still choppy. It was now cut this a jagged, untidy shape that barely touched his neck. It was strange how well it suited him. How well most anything suited him.

 

“I disagree.”

 

“You disagree?” Jehan looked at him dubiously.

 

“I can stereotype anyone.” Grantaire said with cool nonchalance.

 

“Do me then.” Jehan quirked his brow, interested in what Grantaire had to say.

 

‘Putting me on the spot then?” He faked loosening his collar and Jehan rolled his eyes. “I’d stereotype you as a poet I guess.”

 

“You’re not even trying!” Jehan said with a snort, throwing the stale peanuts in the bowl on the centre of that table at him.

 

“I am too!” Grantaire ducked as he defended himself. “There’s a stigma behind artists okay. They think we’re all useless, they think what we do is easy, they think we have no ambition, and they think we’re destined to starve for the rest of our lives since art is ineffective. They’re wrong, in your case. But still. I stereotyped you.”

 

“It was an inaccurate one.” Jehan retorted as he threw more peanuts over at him.

 

“When are stereotypes ever accurate?” Grantaire threw his hands up.

 

“Fair enough.” Jehan replied popping one of the peanuts in his mouth before twisting his face into a grimace and spitting it out.

 

“Is that the phrase of the night?” Grantaire enquired insolently.

 

“It’s three in the bloody morning.” Jehan replied with a calm smile on his face.

 

“It’s that late?” Grantaire asked, but he didn’t seem concerned.

 

“We should probably walk back home.” Jehan groaned and Grantaire repeated the sentiment. He was so enjoying himself. “I have to meet Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac in eight hours anyway. We have to discuss...”

 

Grantaire waved his hand to stop the rest of his sentence. “Nope. No. No. No. I don’t want to hear about. You bloody idiots are going to get yourselves killed or arrested one of these days and I’d quite like to be honest in court when they call me to testify against you and I say I know nothing. How I managed to befriend the biggest bunch of idealists this world’s ever seen, I’ll never know.”

 

“You’d be lying in any case.” Jehan rolled his eyes. He held the door open for Grantaire as they left the pub and headed home. “You know everything and you’d still lie. You love us all.”

 

“To my own detriment.” was the only rejoinder Grantaire could say out loud. Because there were so many other accurate responses to that that he’d never say. _‘I’d take a bullet for you all.’, ‘Being around you and our friends are the only times when I’m truly happy.’, ‘I’m nothing without you all and I don’t want to know what I’d be if you didn’t exist.’_ were a few, but Jehan already knew all of that and he didn’t feel like repeating those drunken but honest statements.

 

“If you weren’t in love with Enjolras, do you think you’d be happier?” Jehan asked out of the blue, after a few minutes of silence. They were walking briskly, arm in arm, because the night air was frigid and they were cold. Grantaire really did long to be under his covers at that moment, for more than one reason after that question.

 

“Jesus.” Grantaire whispered. “You’re intent to make this a night of _deep conversation_ aren’t you?”

 

“As I said, it’s morning. And actually, yes I am.” Jehan looked at him unrepentantly.

 

“No.”  He said after a moment of brief consideration.

 

“No you don’t want to talk about it or no you wouldn’t be happy?”

 

“I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m upset about Enjolras all the time. I’m quite content with the not quite friendship thing he and I have going on. I’m not looking to change that.” He sighed. He was already exhausted with this conversation as he usually was with any conversation involving his pathetic infatuation with Enjolras.

 

“That’s an answer to a different question than the one I posed.” Jehan replied loftily with an unexplainable softness in his eyes. He seemed willing to drop the topic, but Grantaire knew him well enough. Jehan was curious by nature, and if he didn’t get an answer tonight he’d ask the question again another time, just in a different way.

 

“Enjolras isn’t the source of my unhappiness. He’s just...” His sentence trailed off because he really didn’t know how to describe what Enjolras was to him. “I already told you I don’t like anything that’s good for me, why would I be any different with this?”

 

“That’s not what you were going to say.” Jehan responded softly. And no. It really wasn’t. Because that was a lie. To him Enjolras was everything that was good in this world. 

 

“He’s Enjolras,” Grantaire waved his hand as though that could encompass everything that Enjolras was. “He’s that unattainable standard that I set for myself because I know I’ll never reach it. If I didn’t do that I’d have to have a real relationship. A reciprocal one, and then I’ll have to deal with real heartbreak. I’d rather...not. I don’t deal with that well. I’m not saying I’m not...y’know...' _in love'_ or whatever. I just...I’m not looking for anything with him if he even liked me like that. If I could even deserve someone like him. I’m glad that he hates me.” He said not untruthfully. “It makes everything much easier for me to be honest.”

 

Jehan exhaled heavily as they finally reached their flat as though he was relieved. Grantaire knew that feeling. Their home was one of the few places he felt truly safe.

 

“Enjolras doesn’t hate you for what it’s worth.” Jehan said letting go of Grantaire’s arm, for the first time since they started walking home, so he could open the door. “He’s confused by you, you intentionally do things to irritate him or piss him off, but he doesn’t hate you.”

 

Grantaire didn’t have a response for that so he let their conversation fade into a comfortable silence as they both got ready for bed.

 

They climbed in bed together after a few minutes, and this was more typical than not with them. They both needed people more than they’d like to let on. Grantaire felt something like a form of security with Jehan’s arms wrapped around him as they breathed together. They never breathed in sync, (Grantaire’s breath came out in sharp busts and Jehan breath went from steady to a rapid staccato and steady again) but they were breathing. And for tonight, that was enough. 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> They were literally walking along the Seine. There's no way I couldn't use that title. It's from Our Last Summer from Abba if you didn't know.
> 
> I went on the kink meme for the first time and there are so many great prompts on there. I don't know why I've never went there for ideas before. So many plot bunnies. 
> 
> Outside of the very little that I do know about Paris, I admittedly bullshited my way through this fic. Cheers.
> 
> If you have any questions please feel free to ask. Comments and constructive criticism are both greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading.


End file.
